


January, Day 6

by Heurtebizzz (hertie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Gen, Nothing explicit here, POV John Watson, Pining, The Lying Detective - fix-it, The Lying Detective - minor spoilers, The Lying Detective - missing scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9315020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hertie/pseuds/Heurtebizzz
Summary: What happened after they went out for cake.





	

It is an uncharacteristically clear day for early January, John thinks, picking at his slice of Sherlock’s birthday cake.

They ended up getting Black Forest gâteau.

Fresh and moist, a combination of whipped cream, dark chocolate and marachino cherries melting in his mouth, John watches Sherlock jump jauntily from a topic to a topic in the bizarre kaleidoscope of a conversation about German origins of the cake and a few unsubstantiated claims of its authorship made over time by various bakers, then about German classical music, then Italian classical music, and finally, violins and famous violinists. Molly would chirp in awkwardly from time to time, Sherlock would interrupt her with the wind of usual, nearly amicable arrogance.

‘Nigel Kennedy? Hugely over-rated. He thinks he can augment his mediocre talent by political gewgaw. Dull.‘

'I liked his Blue Note Sessions,’ Molly says in a desperate but failing attempt to stand up for her taste in music. Sherlock dismisses it with a waive of hand, then proceeds onto trashing Yehudi Menuhin.

There is some calmness inside John as he listens to their bickering, and yet a part of him still aches, and he can’t quite put a label on it. Not that he wants to, either.

Shortly, Molly stands up, a nervous smile wandering about her face.

'I’ve got to run. Have a ladies night out tonight, with Ellie and Vikki from St. Barts toxicology lab.’

'Right. I think you should change up your routine tonight, though.’ Sherlock hands her his iPhone.

'“Top ten spots to meet single Londoners?”’ Molly reads aloud, squinting at the screen.

'As long as you and your friends keep meeting at that pathetic little bar off Upper Street, odds are you will remain single until you are forty,’ Sherlock winks at her.

'Sherlock-’ John is about to cut him off, to tell him to behave, as it is, as usual, a bit not good, and highly inappropriate what he has just said, but before he can say anything else, Molly nods, smiling a little less nervously.

'Thank you, Sherlock. I’ll think about it.'

They say their good-byes, Molly smiles one more time, this time looking almost genuinely happy, and leaves. Sherlock reaches out for the second slice of Black Forest, adorned with a particularly red cherry perched atop the nest of chocolate shaves. John follows suit.

Half an hour later, there is still too much cake left, and Sherlock suggests John takes it with him. One word after another, and John takes Sherlock with him as well. They find themselves sharing a cab to Harry’s where John picks up Rosie, and Sherlock is delighted to see her. _Well, might as well kill two birds with one shot_ , John tells himself, and invites Sherlock to his flat for supper.

There is a precooked lasagna in the depths of his freezer, and, listening to the monotonous but for some reason, very reassuring humming of the microwave, John turns on the telly.

Sean Connery’s expressive eyes are shooting daggers at him from the screen, and Sherlock produces a soft, unidentifiable sound from the sofa. It does not take a genius detective to deduce that there is a Bond marathon on.

Bond night it is, then.

It does not last long, however. It’s not that late but fighting one yawn after another, Sherlock is so very exhausted, which he hides ineffectively, pretending to be entranced by the movie while slowly slipping in and out of consciousness. Few minutes later, Bond is about to make love to a gorgeous Russian spy, and Sherlock is leaning against the armrest, snoozing, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. It is probably the time to wake him up before he’s completely passed out.

It’s also the time to put Rosie to bed. Perhaps even read to her.

John has a fleeting, tempting thought.

'Sherlock, you awake?’

'Ah?- What?- Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I’m awake, and getting ready to head out.’ Sherlock springs off the sofa as if a small bomb just exploded right underneath his arse. John speaks fast.

'You know what? You can stay a night.'

Sherlock gives him an incredulous look.

'I am sure Mrs Hudson deserves a break from watching you.’

(Better keep it on the side of pure pragmatism.)

After a moment that lasted way too long, Sherlock nods.

'Thank you, John.’

John brings him a couple of pillows and a blanket, wishes him good night, and goes up to the nursery. Thankfully, Rosie is calm, and it doesn’t take long before she’s asleep. John tucks her in, turns the lights off, and quietly walks down to the bathroom.

He brushes his teeth and washes his face. Soap and hot water make his knuckles sting.

It is funny, it occurs to him, how today he felt, for the first time since after that day, that things are almost okay, again.

Until now, that is.

Carefully, he tip toes back to the front room, where Sherlock is curled up on the sofa, dead to the world.

The uncharacteristically clear January day has turned into a crisp, clear night, with the moon big and bright like a lighthouse in the dark sky, gleaming in through the window, and colouring the room cool, silvery blue shades. John is standing in the doorway, listening to Sherlock’s quiet, light snoring. The moonlight softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look young, innocent, vulnerable, and turning every cut and bruise on his face dark violet.

Something clenches inside John, and he knows what’s coming. He clenches his hand, as it hits him.

Lestrade’s words about Culverton Smith passing on his mind, something about how hard it is to stop, when one has started confessing. Does the same logic apply to crying?

Swallowing back the tears, he stares and stares.

Stares at his lost chances, his missed opportunities. The man he loves. The man he has done unacceptable things to. The man who said John was entitled to do every one of them.

He is not. He never was.

It’s all shit.

Guilt and shame are chocking John from the inside, and this time there is no Mary’s ghostly presence to reassure or reprimand him. He is alone.

 _Please, forgive me_.

Moonlit and serene, the flat is quiet. Rosie will wake up in a few hours, breaking the silence with impatient cries, and he will have to lull her back to slumber. Probably, by feeding her. Or by singing a nursery rhyme. Or both.

Until then, he watches Sherlock sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I have never considered fic writing as therapy but TLD had me hurting. This is the fix-it I needed to have.
> 
> Bonus points to those of you who can spot ACD-references, and thank you all for reading.
> 
> My tumblr: heurtebizzz.tumblr.com. Come for a chat.


End file.
